At the outset, I have no clear goal in writing this. But I feel it's long overdue.
You're currently asleep, taking an afternoon nap, in your room. You were consumed with wiping the rear ends of your dolls this morning. You would then clear a space for each one on the couch, and put them down for a nap.
The care you administer is a recurring theme. You've also cared for me. A lot.
As my illness has progressed, you have witnessed the various ways i need help, and have taken it upon yourself to do quite a few things to help me.
You insist on helping to feed me pills, helping me stand up, putting on my socks, taking off my shoes, and you give me sips of my drink...to name a few.
Therein lies the unyielding, painful truth, and the beauty of my situation. I worry. I get frustrated on a level that can quickly turn to anger. I get sad on a level that can quickly turn to frustration. Then you'll saunter over and jump on my belly, and life is good.
All of which leaves me with two points to make: 1. I should amend my previous advice of, "Be happy," with, "or at least recognize that anger is a destructive emotion, and to bear its presence for as little time as possible." 2. As I knew the moment you and Cora were born, you two are the most important part of my life. Cherish each other.
I love you,
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